


Mistletoe Meetings

by Fiona_Fawkes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 20:53:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiona_Fawkes/pseuds/Fiona_Fawkes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first Christmas after his return to Baker Street is rapidly approaching when Sherlock Holmes discovers one element of human interaction on which he is wholly ignorant: the tradition of kissing under the mistletoe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistletoe Meetings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [girlingoldboots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlingoldboots/gifts).



Sherlock was pacing the floor of the sitting room at 221B in what was proving a fruitless attempt at mustering up patience. Twice he had walked over to the landing of the stairwell to shout up to John to hurry along and twice he’d held his tongue. Six months had passed since Sherlock’s miraculous return from the dead – five since he and John had recommenced their flat share at 221B.

Most things had gone back much the way they always were, but John’s patience for Sherlock’s _impatience_ was not one of them. With time and persistence, Sherlock had been able to convince John to move back into 221B with him, but John had come with a new set of “house rules” as he called them. Rule number one: no human remains are allowed in the kitchen. Rule number two: quiet hours were between 11pm and 7am. Sherlock had successfully argued an addendum to exclude times when there was a critical case that he was working on. John had added a further addendum specifying that critical cases were only those involving active kidnapping or murder investigations, or serious threats to national security. Rule number three: Sherlock must treat John with respect. This included, but was not limited to, not interfering with the part time position John had taken at the A &E, not interrupting John’s dates and respecting John’s person and personal belongings.

It was this last rule that John had invoked when Sherlock had got a call from Lestrade this morning. A body had been brought into the morgue overnight that he wanted Sherlock to take a look at. The man had been hit by a bus and although the initial investigation had suggested a tragic pre-holiday accident, the technician processing the body at the morgue had made a suspicious discovery. While the victim had carried no identification, he turned out to have a considerable quantity of rare gold coins secreted away in his pants. Sherlock had been intrigued and insisted that John should accompany him to the morgue. John had in turn insisted that as it was just before 8am on a Saturday morning and that the man was already dead, that it could wait for John to finish his tea and take a shower.

The time was now eight-thirty and Sherlock had exhausted his patience. Just as he was about to give up on waiting, he heard the tell tale stomping of John’s feet on the stairs. “Finally,” he muttered, only partially under his breath as he slipped on his gloves and scarf. “Let’s go, John. We haven’t a moment to lose.”

John rolled his eyes. “Keep your trousers on, Sherlock. I’m sure the coolers at the morgue are quite capable of keeping a corpse cold for the extra fifteen minutes it takes me to get dressed.”

Sherlock merely let out an absent “hmm” and led the way downstairs. He pulled up short at the turn in the stairs, though. Mrs. Hudson was dragging a chair into the foyer with one hand while clutching a sprig of some sort of holiday greenery in the other.

John caught up with Sherlock just as Mrs. Hudson moved to step up on the seat. “Here, let me help you with that,” John insisted as he pushed passed Sherlock.

Sherlock scowled, but with a pointed look back from John, he kept quiet.

“I told you that you could have gone on without me,” John offered.

Sherlock sniffed. “Then I’d only have to fill you in on the details later. Waste of time. It’s much easier if you just come along in the first place.”

John shook his head as he climbed unsteadily onto the seat of the chair.

“Oh, thank you, dear. I'm just putting the finishing touches on the holiday decorations.” Mrs. Hudson said as she handed the greenery up to John.

“My mum used to have a plastic bunch,” John said, handling the natural sprig gently. “Not nearly so nice as this.”

“Oh, I’ve always preferred the real thing, myself. Feels more magical,” she added with a conspiratorial wink.

“Oh, there'd be none of that in our house. Mum was probably paranoid that we’d have tried to eat it,” John said as he attached the sprig to the ceiling by a delicate red ribbon.

“Well, it’s always different in a house that has children in it. So many precautions to be taken.”

“Right you are, Mrs. Hudson.” John nodded at her and stepped down from the chair.

“What is this?” Sherlock asked.

“Mistletoe,” John answered, pointing at the little sprig of green leaves with white berries. “It’s poisonous if ingested, so you have to be careful using it around kids and pets. You mean there’s a poison I’ve heard of that you’ve not?”

“Irrelevant. There are millions of species of plants in the world. It’s impossible for one mind to know them all.” Sherlock questioned, intrigued. “What are the symptoms of mistletoe poisoning?”

“Gastrointestinal problems and bradycardia. I can’t remember what else. It’s been ages since medical school and I’ve never personally treated a patient who’d ingested it.” John looked thoughtful. “Now don’t you go pulling it down and for any of your experiments. If I find mistletoe in the tea leaves I will shoot you.”

Sherlock ignored his threats. “And people just go on hanging it about the house?”

“Well, it’s a Christmas tradition.” John answered.

“Why?”

“Well, because… Oh hell, Sherlock. I don’t know. How do you explain tradition? Someone at some point started doing it and the habit stuck.”

Sherlock looked thoughtful. “And you’re hanging it in the foyer. Why here and not on the mantle or a tree?”

“Oh that’s for the kissing,” Mrs. Hudson answered, enthusiastically. “When two people get caught under the mistletoe at the same time, they have to kiss. For instance, when I was sixteen, I was at a holiday party for the church and Jeffie Woods came dressed so handsomely…”

“Romance?” Sherlock made a face like something smelled.

“It’s just one of those silly, sentimental rules about Christmas, Sherlock. It doesn’t have to be romantic. Here,” John said, kissing Mrs. Hudson on the cheek, which made her blush and titter with laughter. “It’s just a way to make the holiday a bit more festive.”

John pushed the chair back against the wall and opened the door. He turned his head to face Sherlock. “Well, come along, then. We haven’t got all day,” he smirked before disappearing out into the brisk London morning.

Sherlock descended the last of the stairs, buttoning his coat. As he passed their landlady, he leaned over to kiss her on the other cheek.

Mrs. Hudson patted him on the shoulder and told him to behave, waving him out the door.

* * * * *

Sherlock sulked for the entire cab ride back to Baker Street. The case had been a bust. _Post-graduate student. Working late at the museum last night. Coins stolen from the storage vaults. He was going to sell them to buy his pregnant girlfriend an engagement ring. Of course she was pregnant, Anderson. Don’t interrupt. He was distracted by stress and guilt and didn’t look before crossing the street. Accident. Boring._ It had put Sherlock in a foul mood.

He got out of the car without a word and was nearly to the door, but pulled up short at the sound of John clearing his throat. Sherlock turned back and John nodded towards the cabbie.

Oh. Right. Rule number four: when it’s for a case, Sherlock pays for the cab. Because John had been living frugal while Sherlock was gone and had gotten into the habit of taking public transit whenever he could. Sherlock walked back and paid the driver as John went to unlock the front door. But just as he walked through the door, Sherlock shouldered his way in ahead of John, tossed his long coat at, but not on, the coat hooks on the wall and practically ran up the stairs.

“Sherlock, what the hell?” John wondered what the big rush was, but stooped to pick up Sherlock’s coat and hang up it and his own before he slowly followed. John half expected to find Sherlock tearing through the flat for something vital, but found him laid out on the sofa with his eyes closed and his hands held together under his chin as if in prayer. John made an attempt to ask what the hell that was all about, but Sherlock merely shushed him without opening his eyes. John thought he’d been around Sherlock long enough to recognize a lost cause when he saw one.

* * * * *

John was at work when Mycroft stopped by the following day.

He’d made a valiant attempt at trying to convince Sherlock to look into _a delicate matter of state_ for him, but Sherlock’s only response was to stare blankly at the wall and pluck at the strings of his violin. Mycroft pulled out his phone and sent a text, which resulted in Anthea coming up the stairs a moment later. She handed a manila folder to Mycroft, who held it out to Sherlock. Sherlock ignored him and Mycroft got up and put it on the table and then he and Anthea take their leave.

They made it to the bottom of the stairs before Sherlock called down, “You have to kiss her!” Mycroft was so caught off guard that he merely stood there looking confused until Anthea stopped typing on her blackberry long enough to look at Mycroft, then look pointedly UP to the ceiling without moving her head. Mycroft looked up to see the mistletoe and sighed audibly, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “childish”. 

Then Sherlock yelled out, “It’s the rules!” 

And Mycroft heard him ripping into the envelope after all and so, to appease his brother, Mycroft tipped his head to the side and said “Would you mind, terribly?”

Anthea just smiled and indulged him in a chaste kiss on the lips. But they lingered just a touch and pulled apart slowly, her moist lips clinging to his until the very last second. It seemed to have more of an effect on Mycroft then he expected and his brows knitted together in confusion and he just looked at her, and she looked back at him and smiled, genuinely, in a way that lit her face up. Mycroft tentatively smiled back, his cheeks flushed, and then she leaned in and kissed him again neither touching anywhere except for at the lips until Anthea reached out one hand and laid it gently upon Mycroft’s cheek.

Then the kiss ended and they both exhaled, stepping away from each other. Mycroft blinked and glanced up the stairs to where he thought he saw a shadow on the wall, but it was gone before he could be sure and he heard Sherlock pacing in the flat above them. Mycroft tugged awkwardly at the bottom of his waist coat, straightening his already impeccable clothes while pulling himself together. Then he switched his umbrella to his left hand, opening the door with his right. He escorted Anthea into the street with a polite, “After you,” to which she replied, with a smirk, “Thank you, sir” and they’re gone.

* * * * *

Sherlock had just returned from bringing his conclusions to Mycroft. _It was the ambassador’s personal assistant. He said he wears a continuous insulin pump but shows no other signs of being diabetic. The pump case is concealing a digital recording device._ He’d started up the stairs when John and a man he didn’t recognize came stomping down. Sherlock stopped and flattened himself against the wall as they met on the landing when John made to introduce his companion.

“Oh, hey, Sherlock. This is …” but Sherlock cut him off as his eyes darted over the stranger.

“Corporal Murray.” 

“How did you know that?” the man asked, before he turned to John with, “Is this that thing he does? Reading everything about a person with one glance?” 

“I saw the letter in the post a few weeks ago. At first I’d assumed a holiday greeting card but the tan and hair cut says military, so it must have been you notifying John of your upcoming leave.”

“Bill, Sherlock. Sherlock, Bill,” John said, indicating each of them with a wave of his hand and a smile at Bill’s gob smacked expression.

“Off to the pub, then?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah. Bill has two weeks leave, but he’s heading off to Hastings with Abby tomorrow and won’t be back until after Christmas. This was the only night we both had free.” With a small wave at Sherlock, John descended the stairs with Bill following close behind him.

They stopped in the foyer to put on their coats. Sherlock hadn’t moved from the landing when John looked up at him to say bye. Sherlock made eye contact with John and then cast his eyes up at the mistletoe hanging from the ceiling, to Bill waiting patiently, and then back at John.

John raised an eyebrow and gave Sherlock a look that said, _I have no idea what you’re talking about,_ which made Sherlock sigh dramatically and stuff his hands in his pockets and ask, “Does it count if you’re the same gender?”

Bill and John glanced at each other in confusion before John suddenly put it together. “Oh!” he exclaimed, looking up and pointing at the little sprig hanging above him. John spoke Sherlock, a bit, and so he translated for Bill. “He means the mistletoe.” 

“Of course it counts!” Bill shouted, suddenly animated. Then he wrapped big hands around John’s chin and the base of his skull and pulled him in for a big kiss on the cheek. The hall was filled with comedic sucking noises and the laughing protests from John.

“Cheeky bastard,” John wiped his cheek with the back of his sleeve but he was grinning when he pulled open the door and shoved Bill out. His cheeks were red when he turned up to wave again at Sherlock and say, “I’ll see you later, yeah?”

“Hmm,” was the only response from Sherlock who then turned and continued up the stairs, apparently deep in thought. John was shaking his head as he pulled the door shut behind him.

* * * * *

When Molly tapped on the door to the sitting room of 221B, it was Greg Lestrade that admitted her. “Careful. He’s in a right strop,” he said, tipping his head towards the far corner of the room where Sherlock was tearing the room apart, looking for God only knew what.

Molly took in the scattered books and papers with wide eyes.

“I know I left those photos filed in the back of a thermodynamics text. They have to be in here somewhere,” Sherlock called out from where he had crawled under the desk.

“Cold case,” Lestrade said, answering Molly’s unspoken question. “Something Sherlock was working on before the thing with Moriarty got out of control. Thought it might be nice to pick it back up again. It’s been almost quiet at the Yard, here lately.”

“I’d kill for a decent murder,” Sherlock said as he started pulling books off of the shelf.

“John says he’s been a right pain in the arse for the better part of a week, now. Told him I’d come by while he was at work and sort out an old case for Sherlock to work through.” Greg whispered conspiratorially. 

“John’s not here, then?” Molly asked. “Only, I’d baked him a Bundt cake. Kind of an early ‘Happy Christmas’ thing.”

“Oh, how sweet of you.”

“Guilty,” Sherlock declared without looking their way.

Greg scrunched his brow with confusion. “What, the tutor?”

“No, Molly. She still feels guilty for helping me fake my death. Molly bakes when she’s anxious and John can’t bring himself to be angry at her when she’s being _nice_. It eases her conscience when he accepts her gifts.”

“Sherlock!” Greg chastised. 

“What?” Sherlock shrugged. “It’s nothing to be jealous about. She’s not that good a cook.”

“Okay,” Molly squeaked, looking frightfully uncomfortable before placing the plastic-wrapped cake onto the table. “I’ll just leave this here, then.”

Greg stood, pulled on his gloves, and opened the door to the stairs.

“You’re leaving. Why are you leaving? You haven’t told me what they did with the teeth.”

“And now I’m not going to,” Greg replied shortly. “When you find the case file, you can read all about it. I think I’m done here.”

“Fine.” Sherlock scoffed at them both, turning his back on them and yelling, “Then shut the door behind you.”

“Here, I’ll walk you out,” Greg says, holding the door for Molly, who blushed and mumbled thanks. Greg pointedly neglected to shut the door on his wait out, just to be a dick right back. 

“Try not to let him get to you, Molly. You know how he is.”

She waved off his concern. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have to be.”

“He’s right though,” Molly said as she buttoned up her coat. “I feel awful about what happened. Seeing what you all went through and not saying anything…” She swallowed and averted her eyes, wincing as if in pain. “It was just awful.”

“No, it’s…” Greg started. “What you did - what you enabled _him_ to do - yeah, it sucked quite a lot at the time, but it was necessary. You didn’t do it alone, but without you, I might be dead.”

“I never thought of it like that,” Molly said in a small voice.

Greg placed his hands on her upper arms and stooped so that he could look her in the eye. “Well I do. And I know for a fact that John does, too. It’s hard not to be cross with Sherlock for what he did because he doesn’t understand how his death would have hurt the people around him. But you understand that, and you went through with it anyway and now you have to live with that remorse.”

“Yes,” she whispered, her eyes shining. “Every day.”

“And that is why you were so easy to forgive. So thank you, Molly Hooper. For your part in saving our lives.”

Molly smiled at him, her cheeks pink and her eyes shining, but she nodded as if accepting his words. Grasping Greg’s elbows firmly in her own small hands she said, “You’re welcome.”

They stayed like that for a moment, both smiling a bit sadly but feeling better for the words having been said. When it grew awkward, they both let their hands fall and stepped back, looking everywhere but at each other. When Molly’s eyes turned towards the ceiling she started with a delicate, “Oh!”

Greg followed her gaze and saw the mistletoe hanging from the ceiling. He looked back down at Molly and then away, clearing his throat. “That doesn’t count, yet. Not until Christmas Eve.”

“Of course,” she replied quickly. “Silly tradition, anyway.”

“Yeah, right. Anyway. I should…” Greg looked back at Molly and took a deep breath. “Have you eaten?” he asked quickly.

Molly’s eyes grew comically wide and her mouth gaped a bit like a fish’s with no words coming out. 

“It’s just that, well, I’ve nothing on. And I know you’re probably busy this close to Christmas, but if you’re not…”

“I could eat,” she blurted out. “That’d be lovely, actually. Dinner. With food.”

Greg’s grin lit up his face but before Molly’s could fully match his wattage she’s getting that frowning, thoughtful look on her face again. Before Greg could ask what’s brought it there, Molly grabbed onto his scarf tails with both hands and went up on tippy toes to kiss him right on the mouth. It was lovely and she heard his sharp intake of breath through his nose but he didn’t pull away. In fact, he placed his hands firmly on her elbows and squeezed them gently as he returned the kiss.

They broke apart slowly, blinking, both a little dazed. Molly recovered first and said, “Right then. I’ve been craving pho. Do you like pho? Only, it’s a bit of an acquired taste and it’s alright if you don’t, I was just thinking…”

“I love Vietnamese,” Greg interrupted, opening the door to the street. “There’s a great place over on Shaftesbury,” he offered, pulling out his car keys and closing the door behind them.

* * * * *

Christmas came early for Sherlock. He and John spent a whirlwind three days on the tail of a homicidal chef that left John with seven stitches on his wrist and both of them swearing off oysters for the foreseeable future. They passed the time at A&E making up increasingly more absurd names for John’s blog post about the case and didn’t make it back home until after dark on Christmas Eve. They were still riding out the post-case high as they wearily let themselves in the front door.

“How about _The Christmas Capers_?” John offered, awkwardly shrugging off his jacket in an effort not to pull at his stitches.

“No, I quite like capers.” Sherlock replied. “I don’t want you to ruin them for me.”

“Caviar Killings?”

“No, no. How about _The Mistletoe Murders_?” Sherlock offered, pointing at the innocuous sprig hanging above their heads.

“Hey, that’s pretty good, actually. You know, I keep thinking I should write a novel. You could help me come up with the perfect crime. Nobody would ever guess the ending.” John hung up his jacket and was already up the first step when Sherlock stopped him. 

“John?”

“Yeah?” John turned and looked, but Sherlock just stood in the entryway. “What is it? Something I missed?” 

Sherlock shrugged. “I just thought…”

John stepped back down and walked over to stand in front of him. He was a little worried because he thought Sherlock almost looked _nervous_ and wasn’t that just absurd because Sherlock Holmes was never uncertain about anything. Sherlock bit his lip and looked up at the bit of greenery hanging above their heads.

“Oh!” John exclaimed, and pulled at the collar of his jumper, looking anywhere but at Sherlock. “You don’t, I mean. It’s not really _required_ or anything. It’s just a silly thing people do. You’re kind of above all that.”

“No, it’s… I wanted to understand. I did some research and, well…” Sherlock put his hands in pockets of his trousers and hunched his shoulders. “Please?”

John was used to Sherlock throwing around the word ‘please’ like a magic key that got him whatever he wanted, yet this time felt different. He actually seemed sincere and Sherlock so rarely showed any sort of affection that John didn’t have it in his heart to shut him down. So John shrugged his shoulders, gave him a small smile and said, “Alright.”

Sherlock closed the distance between them. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and lightly rested them on John’s shoulders. He leaned in impossibly slow, almost as if he were giving John the chance to change his mind. Never one to back down from a challenge, John closed his eyes, braced his hands on Sherlock’s waist and arched up on his toes to meet Sherlock half way.

Sherlock’s lips were cool and chapped from dry winter weather and John shivered as they were gently worked against his own. When their lips met it was like a thick velvet curtain coming down and blocking out everything else. John’s wrist didn’t hurt and he stopped worrying about waking up Mrs. Hudson. In fact, John found himself fisting the fabric of Sherlock’s coat just to stay grounded. John exhaled through his nose and then inhaled deeply as if he’d just now remembered how. Sherlock made a curious _hmm_ sound and parted his lips, drawing John’s lower lip between both of his own and that changed everything.

The transition from cool and dry to hot and wet was instant and overwhelming. John considered himself a fairly experienced kisser, and not a bad one at that, but with Sherlock he felt like he was barely hanging on. Sherlock kissed like he worked, with meticulous focus and an assertive energy that left John gasping to keep up.

Before John knew it, the kiss was over and Sherlock was stepping backwards, pulling his lower lip between his teeth and looking away. “Thank you,” he said simply. “I think I understand now.”

“Right,” John nodded, and then cleared his throat. “Um, you’re welcome.”

Sherlock stepped around him to slip off his coat and hang it up. “Tea, I think,” Sherlock said before he started up the stairs. He paused on the landing, and turned back to look at John, who still stood pole axed in the middle of the foyer. “John, are you coming up?”

“Yeah,” John shook his head, took one look at mistletoe hanging innocuous above his head and smiled. “I’m right behind you.”

* * * * *


End file.
